


Harlequin

by bactaqueen



Series: Shades of Green [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Pegging, Rimming, i'm pretty sure it qualifies as femdom anyway, reader as non-pov character, steve's being kind of a bossy bottom, subby!Steve, unrealistic male orgasms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8071897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: Steve just wants you to do things to his butt.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. Recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. No profit is earned and no infringement is intended.
> 
>  **Author's Note:** Steve got his salad tossed after all.

Steve made a small helpless sound against your neck.

You pushed your fingers through his hair. “Hmm?” Your breathing was still rapid, harsh; you were even still shaking in his arms, pinned between his body and the wall, fine little tremors all through you that transferred to him, made him tremble.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth when your nails scraped his scalp. His softening cock bumped against your cunt, swollen and wet and so hot. He nearly groaned. He wanted _more_. He wanted all of it. But... “Off,” he managed.

Your fingers skated down the back of his neck. “Oh.” You went very still. “Does it hurt?”

Yes. No. It was _too much_. Every part of him felt like a live wire skimming water, arcing sparks, blue-white. He didn't know how to explain. It hurt, but wasn't _bad_. He just needed _less_.

Just for now. Just until he wasn't so overwhelmed.

He made another helpless sound.

Your legs slid down his thighs and you lowered yourself, slowly, until you stood between him and the wall. You cupped his face, fingers gentle on his cheeks, and he blinked until his eyes focused and he could stare down at you. _I could get used to this._ It was a real thought, clear and solid and more than just sensation. Looking down at you gave him vertigo without the icy fingers wrapped around his heart and the floating sensation in his gut. You stroked a thumb over his bottom lip and smiled up at him and his lungs seized up.

“You need a shower.” Your smile quirked into something that teased, that grounded. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

Oh, God. Had he really—without even showering—how bad did he _smell_? The breath rushed all out of him and he felt lightheaded. What was _wrong_ with him?

He must have made a face because you laughed at him. “Come on.” You leaned away from the wall, hands on his shoulders to nudge him back.

He whimpered at the press of your belly against his dick.

You frowned, then winced. “Oh. I'm sorry, sweetheart.” You let go of his shoulders to slip your hands beneath the bottom edge of his uniform top so you could unbuckle the leather strap connecting the cockring to the nipple clamps.

Relief made him sag. Made him moan a little. He took a deep breath just because he could. It was like stepping out of the Vita-Ray Chamber all over again, complete with the uncontrollable shaking. He put his hands flat on the wall behind you for support, boxing you in, so he could lower his head and close his eyes and try to will the shaking to stop.

You pushed your hands into his pants and cupped his balls. Steve sucked in a breath and bit the inside of his lips to keep from whimpering.

“Shh, I know.” You opened the cockring with a quick pinch.

He nearly swayed. The relief was instant. He was dizzy. Without the tension of the ring and the buckle, without the pressure and awareness of them, without each breath or shift of his weight tugging on the nipple clamps, he could focus on the fact that you were holding his balls and breathing soft and hot against his neck.

“Oh, God.” He shuffled forward and wanted to pull you back into his arms, pick you back up, wrap you around him one more time...

You opened one of the pouches on his belt and tucked the cockring into it, leaving the leather strap to dangle against his leg. Then your hands slid up under the top of the uniform, and you removed the nipple clamps.

He groaned. Blood rushed back into his nipples, prickly, stinging, and the raw ache of them had him feeling hot all the way up to his ears.

Hands on his waist to steady him, you brushed a kiss to the angle of his jaw. “Better?”

He took a deep breath, took stock of himself. He wasn't overwhelmed anymore. But it wasn't really _better_. “I don't know,” he admitted sheepishly. He missed them. Missed it all. Your hands on him, your lips brushing his skin, weren't enough.

He must have looked as out of sorts as he felt because you put the nipple clamps and their chain into the pocket with the cockring, then curled your fingers around the back of his neck and brought him down for a real kiss, slow and deep, that stoked the fire in him.

“Come on. Let's get you cleaned up. It'll be better.”

Yeah. You were right, he knew. He just... couldn't move quite yet. He felt too cumbersome and uncoordinated. He pressed his face to your neck. You stroked fingers through the hair on the back of his head and kissed his temple and didn't rush him as he took long, deep breaths. Finally, he kissed the curve of your neck and stood up straight.

He waited for you to lead the way.

When you reached for his hand to pull him along with you, he wanted to kiss you again.

In the bathroom, you leaned into the big glass-enclosed shower to turn on the water—so hot steam fogged the glass in moments—and then you turned to face him.

“Do you wanna take the plug out yourself, or do you want me to do it?”

Oh. Steve blinked. He'd almost forgotten about it. Now that you'd mentioned it, it was all he could feel. _Oh._ He swallowed down the new heat rising in him and thought about it. He should probably duck into the tiny toilet closet and take care of it himself. That would make sense. But just thinking that, just thinking about being alone even for the few minutes that would take, made him feel... uncomfortably panicky. Queasy and bad-hot and breathless. He didn't want to be alone. At all. He looked helplessly at you and tried to answer, or shrug, or something, but couldn't.

You smiled gently, eyes full of something that made him feel warm all the way down to his toes. He relaxed. He hadn't disappointed you.

“More fun for me this way,” you said, and winked at him.

You pulled your shirt and bra over your head—God, _he hadn't even gotten you undressed_ , at least he'd had the decency to take your jeans off of you—and pushed your panties down. Then you were in front of him, opening the hook and bar at his throat, loosening top of the uniform. Manhandling him a little, and he liked it. He peeled off his gloves, slouched and tipped forward to let you pull the top half of the uniform over his head; it ended up on the floor in a stiff heap.

Your hands cupped the sides of his chest, thumbs skating in to brush over his sore red nipples. He exhaled a hissing breath, trying to make his chest go concave, shoulders hunching. Your thumbs slipped down, curved along the muscles that defined his pecs, like he might hold your breasts.

“I'm sorry.” You ducked and kissed just above each nipple, light, your breath ghosting warm over his skin. “Why didn't you take them off?”

“Natasha wouldn't let me.” There was definitely more of a whine in his voice than he liked. He closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath. With your hands, your lips, your breath, were chasing the ache out of him. He wanted more again. Because of the pain, in spite of it, did it matter?

You nuzzled his breastbone and smiled against his skin.

Oh, God. Laughter bubbled up inside him, and the words spilled out before he could stop them. “She spent the whole ride over _watching_ me. She _knew_.”

You looked up at him, eyes glittering. “You think so?”

“Oh, yeah.” There was no doubt in his mind. Natasha could swear up and down all she wanted that she only “looked” like she knew everything; Steve knew the truth, and the truth was that whatever Natasha didn't know, she figured out real fucking quick. It wasn't like he was a mystery to her. He probably never had been. All she'd had to do was look at him and know everything. He laughed. “Pretty sure she told Sharon and Carol, too,” he added, because he knew you'd get a kick out of it. Maybe Sharon hadn't even needed to be told.

She'd always been able to read him pretty well, too.

Your lips twitched as you fought a smile. “But who told Bucky?”

“Oh, I did.”

You laughed.

He was _transparent_. It could have bothered him. Nat and Sharon liked to tell him what a terrible spy he was. But here, standing in his steamy bathroom, your hands on him and your pleased, proud smile and laughing eyes on him, all for him... he didn't care.

But he did need to explain. “I needed backup.” It wasn't like he was in the habit of revealing all of his own secrets just to get his friends to laugh at him. And if a guy couldn't trust his oldest friend in the world, who could he trust? “I couldn't stay out there—”

You lifted on your toes to kiss him, mouth pressed warm against his even though you wouldn't stop smiling. “And Bucky's your man.”

The way you said “your man” had a shiver sliding down his spine and his asshole clenching around the waist of the plug. “He got me home.” He could always count on Bucky. Steve leaned forward as you pulled away, hoping for another kiss. Hoping for more of them. The distraction had turned into fresh want. “Can we get in the shower now?”

Your hands glided down his sides until you were holding his waist and you smiled up at him. “Not with those boots on.”

Startled, he looked down at himself. He was, indeed, still wearing his boots. And pants. He laughed. “Yeah, all right.”

He stepped out of your hold to kick off the boots and shove his pants down. The chains and metal buckle dangling from the pouch rattled when they hit the tile floor. While he kicked everything out of the way, you reached in to check the temperature of the shower. You didn't step in. You turned back to wait for him.

He was touched until he stepped past you, into the shower, and you landed a firm smack right across his ass. It jostled the plug inside him, made him jerk, made him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.

You grinned at him.

Chuckling—at you, at himself, over the low burn spreading through him—he ducked under the water. He sighed. The heat hit, soothing the adrenaline ache in his muscles, loosening the filth in his hair. He closed his eyes and tipped his face up to the water, let it wash away the grit and blood and the fight.

Your hands slid up his back and along the tops of his shoulders and back down, slicking water away. He sagged. He knew it was ridiculous to think that you could hold him up; Sam liked to remind him that he was heavier than he looked. But he _believed_. If he let himself go, you'd catch him.

He was turning around just before you suggested it. Shoulders hunched, he slumped so he could rest his head on your shoulder. Your wet arms went around him. For long, quiet moments, you held him, and he sank into himself, back into the place you let him go.

You kissed his temple and moved him back until you could wash his hair. He kept his hands on your hips, his thumbs stroking along your hipbones, fingers dug into soft skin. He felt lighter. Like gravity couldn't hold him. Your nails scraped his hairline and you tipped his head back. He closed his eyes and breathed slow and deep as the soap rinsed away. You rubbed his temples, and when he opened his eyes and blinked against the light, you were smiling at him.

“How are you doing?”

He grinned. It probably looked as dopey as it felt. “Green.”

“Yeah?” You let him go and reached for the body wash and a washcloth. “Let's keep going.”

He ended up knocking half the bottles off the ledge so he could fold his arms on it and put his head down. You soaped up the washcloth and all he had to do was spread his legs to keep his balance and let you clean him, chest and back and arms, your fingers tangled with his one hand at a time to scrub the blood from his fingers, his nails, and then you were sliding to your knees, his body blocking the spray for you, washing his hips, his legs. Even his toes, and he laughed and curled them against the tile floor. It didn't tickle, exactly; that wasn't something he'd ever given much thought, but drifting along where he was, it was something he might want to consider.

Later, though. Not yet.

With his eyes closed, his other senses worked in overdrive. It was so warm and you were so close he could _smell_ you, and your hands were so gentle, so sure. His fingers curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms, when you eased his thighs farther apart.

You touched the exposed base of the plug, pushed on it a little. Steve groaned.

“I'm gonna take it out now,” you said, voice low. The cloth slipped up the inside of his thigh as the tips of your fingers probed around the end of the plug.

“Oh, God.” He clenched reflexively.

The washcloth dropped to the floor beside his foot, and then your hands were stroking up his flanks until you could massage the small of his back.

“You have to relax, darling.”

He didn't _want_ to relax. “I don't know if I want it out,” he said. Now his dick was starting to take notice of things again. So was the rest of him. He _liked_ it.

He liked you on your knees behind him. Looking at him.

Your curved a hand over one asscheek and gripped, spreading it away from the other. “I promise I'll give you something just as good.”

He groaned again. All right, yeah, for that... “Yeah.” He took a deep breath and relaxed.

Oh, it was good, your fingers on him, the pressure of the fullest part of the plug as you tugged it free, the relief and satisfaction as the rest of it slid out. You rubbed the pad of your thumb over his asshole, soothing the tender furled edges, and he groaned deeply into the crook of his elbow, unable to keep his back from arching, his toes from curling.

“There you go,” you murmured, the shower drowning out the words but not the low rumble of your voice. He felt the plug roll against the side of his foot, felt the washcloth pulled away.

You ran the washcloth down the cleft of his ass, gentle. Your fingers were firm on his cheek, holding him open. You hadn't even done anything and he was close to the edge. His thighs trembled, his cock jerked.

Your fingers followed the cloth, directing the water sluicing over him, rinsing away soap bubbles, and then you dropped the rag beside his foot again, and both of your hands were on his ass, and he held his breath because he knew what was next.

“You gonna bend over for me, or do I have to do all the work?”

He could hear the smile in your voice. He huffed a laugh against his arm and moved, sliding his feet out and back to frame your hips, arching his back, bending his knees, spreading his thighs wide. It was awkward, but not unbearably so, not with your hands on him, not with the warmth of your mouth near.

The first touch of your tongue to him made him moan, low and loud and long. Your fingers dug into his backside, and you shifted between his legs, and then there were the sweet kitten licks of greeting, warming up. He didn't need to be warmed up. His dick was already filling. If he hadn't been holding on to his elbows so tight, leaning so hard on the ledge, he'd reach back, push his fingers in your wet hair, pull you closer. As it was, he deepened the arch of his back and shifted more of his weight to his arms on the ledge so he could lift up on his toes.

You made a sound, something thoughtless and content, and your hands slid around to cup his hips, to pull him back. Your licks were broader, harder. You stroked hands up and down his thighs, light, then as each lick became more deliberate, firmer and more purposeful. The tip of your tongue pressed just inside him; your hand closed around his cock.

“Oh, God.”

He couldn't help rocking his hips, fucking into your hand. Your other hand slid up the inside of his thigh and you cupped his balls, pressed your thumb up behind them. He groaned and sank in on himself, losing everything but your soft wet tongue on him and in him, your hand around him, just right. It was all just right, you knew just what he needed, what he wanted.

His noise echoed in the shower, amplified and in stereo. He pressed his mouth to the crook of his elbow and tried to muffle the whimpering wail when he came, balls drawn tight in your hand, your thumb rubbing small firm circles behind them, your fingers snug around his slippery cock, your tongue flicking over his clenching hole. Then his trembling knees gave out, and he clipped his chin and clicked his teeth as he fell.

And you caught him, arms around his chest. He sat on your thighs and shook like he might fall apart, and you just wrapped your arms around his chest and kept him from falling face-first into the tiled bench at the side of the shower.

He closed his arms over yours and linked his fingers with yours, brought a hand up to his mouth so he could kiss his own come off of your skin, and he drew a deep breath and tried to pull himself together.

“You did that on purpose.” His voice was raw. He couldn't seem to stop shaking.

“Do you want me to apologize?” You kissed the back of his shoulder.

He laughed a little.

You kissed the knob of his spine and the back of his neck. “Didn't think so.” Your fingers squeezed his. “How're you feeling? Done for the night?”

“No. Not done.” He said it before he even thought about it.

You smiled a kiss against the curve of his neck. “How about we get you dried off, and then you can decide?”

He didn't need to wait until he'd dried off. He knew he didn't want to be done. He kissed your fingers one more time, then laid your hands on his thighs and reached for the seat to use it to haul himself up. His knees still felt like rubber, but he couldn't think of a better reason to feel so weak. Standing, he half-turned, intending to pull you up, too, but you were already up, reaching for him. You maneuvered him under the water, again, this time to rinse the come off his belly and thighs and off of your hand. Then you shut the water off.

By the time he got he feet to cooperate, you were already standing on the fluffy rug, wrapped in one towel, another over your arm, holding a third out for him to step into. He smiled at you, and your cheeks went pink; oh, he thought, it must have been a good one, and filed the muscle memory away for later. He never got sick of smiles that made you blush. You wrapped the towel around his waist and tucked it in, then opened the other one and held it up.

“Come on,” you said.

He ducked maybe too eagerly, but who would know? Who would tell? And he closed his eyes as you scrubbed his hair dry, wiped his face and his neck and his shoulders.

Your hands cupped his face until he looked at you, and whatever you saw made you nod.

“All right. Go on, go get in bed.”

He hesitated. “Are you...”

“I'm coming, just give me a minute. I need to rinse my mouth out.”

He laughed. “Oh,” he said, and kissed your forehead. “I'll be waiting.”

You winked. “Slip into something comfortable, why don't you?”

Laughing again, he left the bathroom. He pulled the door shut behind him to give you privacy and made his way to the bed. He settled on the edge and clicked the lamp on, looked around the bedroom and smiled. Well, the place wasn't a wreck like it might have been if he'd gotten to stay. At least he could appreciate that even if he was sorry.

He finished drying his hair and rubbed the damp off his skin. _Slip into something comfortable._ He dropped the towels on the floor and reached for the nightstand drawer. Just looking at the toys there made him shiver again. He was starting to feel it, the deep-inside kind of contented tired that he worked so hard for. He _was_ tired, but he wasn't tired _enough_. He stared down at the tangle of nylon and the dildos lined up so neatly beside the harness.

He wasn't too tired to be fucked.

So he got one of the lube shooters from the freezer bag beside the dildos. He glanced at the bathroom door. It was still closed, and he could hear the sink running. He had time. He stood up and put his foot on the edge of the bed. He had the brief mental image of being caught like this, hips tilted, curled in on himself, one hand holding his half-hard cock and tender balls out of the way, the other slipping the syringe up inside himself. You'd probably smile at him. Offer to take care of it. And he'd end up bent over with your fingers up his ass and God he was going to come again before he even got the good stuff.

He dropped the applicator back into the drawer, got out the harness and one of the dildos and the bottle of lube, and knocked the drawer shut with his knee. He sat back down on the edge of the bed just in time for you to shut the light off in the bathroom and step into the bedroom. He dropped the lube onto the bed at his hip and held out the harness, fingers spread, holding it open and ready for you to step into.

It wasn't as pretty as the way you'd held up the plug and clamps and cockring earlier, but it would do.

And the grin you gave him lit up the room like headlights flooding through the window. He'd surprised you. His heart climbed into his throat and he grinned back.

You crossed the room to stand right in front of him. “Are you sure?”

“Better be, I already got ready for you.”

You put your hands on his shoulders, then slid them up, cupped one around the back of his neck and the other along his jaw.

He smiled up at you, dopey and hopeful.

You laughed. “Should I put on anything else?”

He thought about stockings and underthings that left nothing to the imagination and the shoes you'd worn the night you'd taken him to that noisy club and jerked him off under the table at the edge of the dance floor. But he shook his head. Some other time.

“Just this,” he said, and leaned forward, a little, to lower the harness, to make it easy to step into.

You shuffled back and dropped your towel, then used his shoulders for balance as you stepped into the harness. He slid it slowly up your legs, his fingers getting in the way of the straps so he could touch as much of your skin as possible. He didn't hurry through slipping the toy into place, sliding his fingers into your slit to feel how wet you were, how hot and plump, and he watched your face as he stroked fingers over your clitoris. Later, he thought. Tomorrow. In the morning, he'd wake you up, keep you like that for as long as you let him. He centered the toy and tightened the straps at your hips, at the creases of your thighs.

Finally, he rested his hands on your waist and looked up.

You rewarded him with a kiss.

You stroked your thumbs up his cheekbones until you could push your fingers into his hair and tip his head back. “What do you want?”

What didn't he want? He pushed against your hands until he could lean forward and bury his face between your breasts. His fingers on your waist dug into your skin and pulled you closer. “I just want you to fuck me.”

You laughed and tugged his hair to pull him back. You smiled down at him, so sweet, and you rubbed your thumb along his lip. “On your back or on your belly?”

“On my back,” he said without thinking, and kissed your thumb. “Wanna see your face when I come.”

You flushed beautifully, bright-eyed and pleased, and you kissed him again. A real kiss this time, deep and wet and so sweet that he moaned when you broke it, his hands on your hips pulling you back, and you were smiling when you kissed him again.

“Get up on the bed, sweetheart.”

He moved back up on the bed until he could rest his head and shoulders on the pillows. He spread his legs, slow, watching you as he did because your eyes went a little dark and unfocused and he liked that he could do that to you. He held out his hand. Your fingers slid against his and you let him steady you as you climbed up on the bed between his legs.

You brought his hand to your mouth and kissed his knuckles, then laid his hand on his belly. You ran your hands from his knees to his hips and back, your trailing fingertips raising goosebumps on his skin. His swelling cock twitched.

Hands on his knees pushed his legs wider, and you reached under his thigh for the lube he'd forgotten to move. One-handed, because the other was still wrapped around his knee, you flipped open the cap and squeezed some out onto the top of the dildo. He watched, feeling hotter and hotter still when you closed the cap and wrapped your fingers around the toy to slick it up, to get your fingers coated.

“Shouldn't need much,” he said. He drew his knees up, framing your body with his legs. His hands went to the backs of his knees and he held on, tipping his hips up. “I already did the hard part.”

“Did you.” You dropped the hand from the top of his knee to the bed beside his hip and leaned forward, bracing yourself. You pushed one slick finger right into him.

Steve's eyes fluttered shut and his head dropped back. “Fuck.”

You withdrew your finger, pushed two back in. Your thumb found the patch of skin behind his balls and you rubbed a small circle. “You really are ready for me.” Your fingers curved inside him; your thumb pressed firmly against the outside of him.

He was going to— He moaned. “Yeah. Yeah, I want—”

The bed shook a little as you shifted your weight. Your free hand—wet, now, with more lube, when had you gotten it—closed around his dick and stroked up, once, painfully gentle. He was more than halfway there.

“Wanna get all wet?” you asked, voice low. “Inside and out? Fuck you so slow you barely even feel it.”

He moaned. Couldn't help it. His knees started to shake.

Your hand slid off of his dick. He protested, words cut off on a whimper when your fingers slid out of him. A moment later, your hand was back, thumb sliding up and down beneath the head of his cock, and the head of the toy nudged against his hole.

He didn't even need your instruction. He turned his head, pressed it into the pillow, and bore down to take it.

It wasn't the biggest or the thickest toy. Because, yeah, this was exactly what he wanted. The easy glide of it in, your body against his and he could feel your warm skin above the harness against this balls. He wrapped his legs around you, your waist on the insides of his thighs smooth and warm. Your fingers fisted around his dick and stroked him twice, slow and easy.

With his legs around you, he didn't need to hold them up, and his hands dropped to the bed and he gripped the comforter. You shuffled forward on your knees, tucked them under his thighs and spread them wide, bracing yourself so you could rock into him. Slow. Slow and easy and so good, the stretch of the toy inside him, the drag of it out of him. Your hand stroked his cock in counterpoint. Fingers danced up and down his thigh until he seized them, tangled his own fingers with them and squeezed, tugged you forward and turned his face so he could kiss you.

He was seeing stars. Hearing symphonies. He reached up, tucked his hand under the edge of the headboard, and held on. He didn't have to do anything but be fucked. Be kissed. Listen to your breath and taste your lips and smell you, feel you; sink into himself, hot and tight all over, fucked and wanted. It was good. God, it was so good, better than the cockring, better than the nipple clamps, better than fucking you in the hall like he was nothing but an animal, stupid with need, better than your tongue on him in the shower. He sighed and gasped, made low little sounds that meant _yes_ and _please_ and _more_.

When he came, it was over your hand, on himself and on you. You stopped moving, but he pressed his heels to your thighs, mindlessly, begged, “More, please, give it to me again, I can take it.”

You tipped forward. Loosened your fingers from his and put it on his chest, and the other—sticky, hot, the smell of his own come—touched his chin. He turned his face, chasing those fingers, and opened his eyes to meet yours as he licked your hand clean.

Your hips started moving again, long slow rolls that made the toy move in and out of him smoothly. You braced hands in the pillows to either side of his head and kissed him. Your belly moved against his cock, caught, hardening again between the two of you. He moved hands from under the headboard to your hair, to your back, to pull you closer and hold you there. He leaned up into the kisses, chasing, tasting and tasted and desperate to keep you close. Desperate until you gave in and let him hold you as you fucked him, and he came again, spurting weakly against your bellies.

You started to pull away and he protested, but he couldn't seem to make his hands grasp, and his thighs were sore, his legs shaking. They fell away from you. He shivered, trembled, close to done but still _needing_.

He must have tried to tell you because your hand stroked down the front of him. “Shh.” You flattened a hand over mons, pressed your thumb into the crease of his thigh. Your hips shifted, the toy eased out of him.

He whined. He could watch only through his eyelashes—even his eyelids felt too heavy to open—as you knelt up between his thighs and pulled the straps of the harness apart so you could drop the whole thing off the side of the bed. He made an abortive attempt to reach for you, hands up and fingers spread, but he had to drop his hands back down because they were heavy. Sleep seemed a tangible thing, tugging him down. You set your fingers at his ankles and ran them up his legs, over his splayed knees, up his hips back down his thighs to his knees, up and down his thighs, edging closer and closer to his dick, to his balls.

“Oh, God,” he said, and squirmed, trying to get closer to you, trying to get away.

You wrapped both hands around his cock and tugged, smooth and gentle, twisting your palms. “What do you think?” Your voice was low, rough. “You got another one in you?”

“Yes,” he hissed. He didn't know but he'd fucking _try_. His hands found your thighs and his fingertips dug in.

His spine felt melted, his bones liquid inside him, and his cock didn't even harden. That didn't matter; your hands on him brought him again, and he made a mess of himself, of you. He gasped and couldn't open his eyes at all, could barely move.

Vaguely, he thought that you still needed yours. He was no good. He knew he was no good. He felt beyond himself in the best way. But he still wanted you close. Wanted to listen.

“I'm,” he started, and forgot his train of thought when you ran your hands up his sides and covered his pecs with your hands. “Oh.”

“Exhausted,” you supplied, a smile in your voice that made him feel hot in the best way from his hairline to his toes. “Done for. _No more, ma'am, I've had enough_.”

He managed a laugh. Finally convinced his hands to move and covered your hands with them. He shifted his legs, stretching them, and bounced a knee—invitingly, he hoped. “Come on,” he said. “You.”

You laughed at him. Leaned over and kissed him, light and sweet. “You can't even help.”

“No,” he agreed, shameless. He'd make it up to you. “But take it, anyway. Whatever you want.”

You dislodged his hand, ran your fingers straight down the center of him to touch his soft wet cock. “I don't think he's up for it.”

He chuckled. “Give me a minute.”

“I think that's very optimistic of you.” You held his hip and kissed him again. “I can wait.”

“All right,” he agreed. He was losing the fight against sleep, more and more each passing moment.

“But I'll take this.” You shifted until you were straddling a thigh.

He groaned. You were wet and swollen and so hot you burned. His hands went to your sides and then across your back and he pulled you down.

“Yeah. Yes.” He rubbed his heel against the bed, moving his thigh against you. “Yeah, take— Take it.” He tipped his face, looking for a kiss. He wasn't any good for anything else, not right now, but he was good for this.

You put your fingers in his hair and kissed him, and your hips rolled, dragging your cunt against his thigh. He pressed up against you and leaned into the kiss, slipped his tongue against yours. You didn't need much from him. But he could hold you, and let you kiss him, and let you use him.

His arms tightened around you. You gasped, sucking his lower lip between yours, and came against this leg. You sank, and he kept you from falling. Your fingers slid from his hair, down his neck, until you were holding his shoulders. Your face pressed inelegantly to his chest, right beneath his collarbone, and he brushed his lips to the top of your head. Your skin was as hot as his, your breathing just as ragged. Good. That was good.

The room started to feel cold, even with the serum burning through him like a furnace, even with you on top of him. He wanted a blanket. Not badly enough to move, but the desire was there, skating along the edge of his awareness and making itself known. It was with thoughts like _maybe someone should clean me up_ and _maybe I should turn off the light_. He didn't really want to do anything about them, though. Not if doing something meant moving. He felt like he was floating, wrung out and wrecked, and it was perfect.

You shifted, and his arms around you tightened. You kissed his chin and then his lips, soft, and told him quietly, “I'm not going anywhere.”

Well, if you promised...

You smiled against him and kissed him one more time, then rolled off of him, onto the bed beside him. You pushed up on one arm and leaned across him to shut off the light, then lay down, facing away. You reached back, cupping his elbow and tugging at his arm, until he convinced his body to agree to this, just this, and he rolled, too. He snuggled up close behind you, legs tucked behind yours, one ankle tucked between yours. He slung an arm over you and cupped a breast; not with intent, just for the comfort of it, the freedom of the intimacy because you let him, you gave this to him. Took him apart and pulled him close. He buried his face in your hair, breathed in the scent of you, kissed the back of your neck.

“Night,” he mumbled.

You wriggled and pulled until you got the blanket up over both of you. The darkness behind his eyelids got blacker, and he stopped fighting sleep. You settled back against him and sighed softly. Fleetingly, he wondered if he was too hot; he got that way, sometimes. But you'd move away in the night, leave your legs tangled with his, and he'd wake up with your feet between his and your hand on his chest, and that was fine.

He surrendered.

 


End file.
